


We Catch Ourselves

by needlecraft



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Canon Era, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 12:23:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18916921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/needlecraft/pseuds/needlecraft
Summary: “Things don’t go good for us.”“No, they don’t. I want this to stay good."





	We Catch Ourselves

It’s late when Race steps onto Brooklyn cobblestones for the second time that day. That morning it’d been hot and busy, and he’d been no more than a kid in the crowd.

 

But now he feels exposed when he walks gingerly off the bridge and into the borough. He’s being paranoid and he knows it. There’s no moon tonight and it’s well past midnight. The likelihood of anyone seeing him and caring enough to do anything about it was slim.

 

That is unless he bumps into any newsies.

 

The Brooklyn boys like Race enough. He breaks the seriosity with petty bets and card games and layers on the charm to keep everyone laughing. But a Manhattan boy, even Race, creeping onto their territory in the middle of the night is more than adequate grounds for a soaking. Spot’s been careful not to give him  _ too _ many privileges. 

 

Race smiles to himself at that thought, pulling up his vest to hide his face from nonexistent onlookers.

 

_ “Gonna give the fellas the idea that we’se friends or somethin’,” _ Spot had joked,  _ “And I ain’t ruinin’ my reputation in order to let you go free range.” _

 

It’s no secret that the king has a soft spot for Race. No other newsie can waltz into Brooklyn, sweep the population of their coins, and saunter out flaunting an ego bigger than New York itself. 

 

What the newsies don’t know is that their losses get returned to their king to be used for their own needs. Race prides himself on the charity. Spot calls it basic decency. 

 

He doesn’t have to walk far before Race comes to his destination: an abandoned horse carriage barn a few blocks from the navy yard.

 

After casting careful glances over his shoulder, he shuffles behind the stacks of supply crates that line the street. From there it’s hands and knees through the meager hole in the fence, then a quiet creep along the side of the barn. With great care, he pulls the door open a crack and slides inside.

 

“Took ya long enough.”

 

Race breaks into a grin at the familiar biteless scorn.

 

“Impatient to see me?” he teases in return as he feels blindly through the darkness.

 

Spot chuckles. “In your dreams, Higgins.” 

 

Race’s hands fall on the ladder, and he climbs up to the loft where he’s careful to avoid the planks they’ve learned are dodgy. 

 

The cracks in the roof allow for a little more light so Race can easily find Spot. The boy stands to greet him, and Race can tell from the lethargy of his movements that he’s exhausted. His hair, free from his cap, falls into his eyes. 

 

Race pushes it back out of his face when he reaches him, then pulls him into a hug.

 

“Hey,” he whispers, any semblance of teasing having vanished.

 

Spot exhales heavily and relaxes into him. “Hey,” he mumbles into Race’s neck, “I missed you.”

 

“You saw me this mornin’.”

 

“Your point?”

 

Race smiles. “Spot Conlon, king a’ Brooklyn, missed lil ole me. I’m touched.”

 

“Don’t push it,” Spot says as he pulls away. He doesn’t go far, letting his hands linger on Race’s waist.

 

“Who would I be if I didn’t?” Race pokes, but he receives only a weak smile in return. “Spotty?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You alright? Ya seem worn out.” 

 

“M’fine, but yeah, I’m a bit tired, I guess. Gave my sellin’ spots to Red today n’ had to go pretty far to find ones half as good.”

 

“You’se too nice to those boys.”

 

He shrugs. “I do what I can.”

 

“Don’t be modest.”

 

“Well, it’s either that or act like you so I’ll pick the lesser a’ two evils.”

 

Race shoves him playfully, and the tiny bit of force is enough to stagger Spot. The wood creaks in warning under his feet as he falters and Race is quick to pull him away from the weak spot in the floor.

 

“Jeez, you’se barely standin’.” Brow furrowing in concern, Race moves to press the back of his hand to Spot’s forehead, but it’s swatted away.

 

“I’ll be fine by tomorrow. M’not sick or nothin’,” Spot says dismissively.

 

“You sure? I heard there’s Richmond boys catchin’ typhoid--”

 

“I ain’t got typhoid, dumbass.”

 

“S’always a possibility.”

 

“Everythin’s always a possibility,” Spot points out, “S’always a possibility that this place falls apart with us inside but here we are anyways.”

 

“What a headline that’d be,” Race laughs.

 

Spot hums his agreement and leans into Race, burying his face in the fabric of his shirt. “ _ Two Fairies Found Dead After Building Collapse _ ,” he murmurs, “Too bad we wouldn’t be around to sell it.”

 

The hypothetical hangs in the air like a threat. Race feels his chest constrict. He hugs Spot closer. 

 

It’s not something they talk about, though they don’t need to. They read each other like black and white print, so glances, gestures and facial expressions have become their own language. Race has memorized the way Spot fidgets with his shirt sleeves when he’s nervous, as well as which looks mean he’s overwhelmed or angry or missing him.

 

They make their living on words. It’s relieving to leave them behind when they can.

 

But then again, it’s suffocating to be forced to abandon them. One slip of the tongue, one word with too much meaning and they’re both dead.

 

Race takes a deep, shuddery breath. “At least we’d be together,” he says.

 

“Don’t get sentimental on me, Racer.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

Somewhere in the city, fire sirens break the rare silence of New York. The wails bounce between the close-packed buildings and reach their hiding spot, ghostlike and daunting.

 

Spot’s hold tightens.

 

“Stay here tonight,” he pleads.

 

“I wanna,” Race says, sliding a hand into the boy’s hair, “But I’m worried.”

 

“I know.”

 

“Don’t you feel like somethin’s comin’? Somethin’ bad?”

 

“For us? Yeah, I do.”

 

“Yeah,” he breathes, heart fluttering anxiously at the thought.

 

“Why do ya feel like that?”

 

“Just the way things are.” He pauses before adding, “Things don’t go good for us.”

 

Spot sighs. “No, they don’t.” In the darkness, his fingers find Race’s, they intertwine. “I want this to stay good,” he states decisively. 

 

Race’s eyebrows dart upward. He licks his lips, asks, “ _ Stay _ good?”

 

“That’s what I said,” Spot confirms flatly.

 

“You think this is good? Us?”

 

“Ain’t it?” Spot lifts his head to meet Race’s eyes in the black.

 

“Yeah,” Race rushes out, “I just-- yeah, fuck.  _ Yeah _ , it’s good.”

 

Spot kisses him then in the feverish way he does, hard and committed like he can’t help but give in to the want. His fingers grip Race’s hips like he’s afraid the boy will disappear any second. Race is grateful for the low light, embarrassed by how red his cheeks get, though he can’t hide how his breaths and his fingers shake slightly with giddy nerves. Spot pulls away, leaving him stunned and unsteady on his feet.

 

He feels like he’ll never get used to that: kissing Spot, how dizzy it makes him.

 

“Exactly,” Spot says, breathless, “Which is why I ain’t okay with losin’ it.”

 

This is new, this passion. It’s fresh and brightly colored. His words sound like a promise.

 

Spot must sense Race’s surprise and cups his cheek, making him meet his focused gaze.

 

“I know we don’t talk about it. Maybe we should have, but you talk enough for the both of us and we both know I ain’t good at this mushy shit. But I’m tryin’ because it’s gotta be said.” He pauses. Race catches the signs of insecurity, but Spot continues. “There ain’t nothin’ for me here but you, and what’s here for  _ us _ ain’t somethin’ we can fight.”

 

“Spotty--”

 

“Hear me out.”

 

Race shuts up for once in his life. Sometimes he forgets what Spot is. A leader. A make-shift king. He’s commanding and strong. Maybe it’s because Race is never on the recieving end of Spot’s speeches, but he is now and he’s enthralled.

 

“I’m eighteen in July. If I can get land out West, I’m gone. Goodbye, New York.”

 

Race stares at him.

 

“Come with me.”

 

Something drums in Race’s chest. Fear, nerves, excitement, hope, doubt, joy.

 

New York is home, but New York is just a place. It doesn’t care about them.

 

He closes his eyes, imagines it. They were no strangers to hard work, but a home? Freedom, safety, the opportunity to be together.

 

Words get caught in Race’s throat as they get mixed up in his confusion of emotions.

Spot waits. He brushes his thumb back and forth across Race’s cheekbone. His eyes are fixed and earnest.

 

Race gives up on words and pulls Spot into another kiss. It’s bruising and desperate and much more than a kiss. An answer. Spot smiles against his lips, one of those rare unabashed grins that only Race gets to witness.

 

Some time later, Spot is asleep, his exhaustion having caught up to him, but Race doesn’t mind, content to hold the boy close to him under their thin blanket. 

 

Sleep is the last thing on Race’s mind. He’s too excited, too relieved. So he gazes through the holes in their roof and focuses on the feeling of Spot’s heartbeat, of his even breathing.

 

He basks in the new feeling that everything will be okay.

 

He can’t stop smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! i've never posted a fic before. challenged myself to write a short one and actually post it. hope this pacing didn't feel awkward. thx for reading xx


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